Dispatch Number SIx

Dispatch Six

DEATH

As lunch was about to be served, Roselia, the lady of the house- a woman I had known since working with her in 2000 to get a school built in her community; a friend who had also been a sister and mother to me in various chapters of our story together- was making a speech in honor of my guests, in honor of me.
It started out sweet and deep, but within a few moments, she started to choke up,-her lips quivered, her eyes welled up, and through deep sobs, she told us that Cesar was dead.

As we watched this amazing woman slowly dissolve into tears and shudders, most of us did the same. I reached out to hug her, and held her shaking body in my arms for a few moments.

Cesar was Roselia´s son in law, the first man to marry one of her six daughters, and the best of the bunch (in my opinion). He was a pillar of the community in the truest sense- involved in social and civil projects, most recently serving as the secretary for the voting committee that over saw the last election in his municipality. He was also my friend, a supporter of our project, and an amazing father to three little boys (ages 2-7). He was 29 years old and had been hit by a car on his way to work riding his motorcycle. This was the closest person I had ever known and been a part of the ritual of death and passing.

I had been aware for some time of the thin veil between life and death, heard its cry rattle my world, and sweep up companions close by in fire storm…but this time it was so much closer to the heart, and I felt a deeper, more piercing, longer lasting wound that left me staggering about.

The next day I went to the funeral, walked with the coffin, and grieved with the family and community. Hundreds of people showed up, packed the church until it was overflowing. I saw people so moved by grief that they staggered around in a drunken stupor, some having to be carried by loved ones.

I sat with a sadness for sometime, feeling its edges, angles, and strange shapes as they moved and twisted about in my insides. I wondered about my feelings, fought my inner contradictions, argued with myself that death was a part of life, and asked myself as deeply as I could, “Why do you grieve so hard?”

Life was the answer, the conclusion I came to. More then loss, more then death, it was life that was grieving me, holding me down. Cesar left a young wife (Rebecea,age 25, a woman I considered a sister and hand know for eight years) and three young boys. In Guatemala, a widow with three young kids was “untouchable”. Her options were only two:

a.Remarry and give up the boys…she would have to send them to her parents home and basically stop being their mom or…(the reason for this ridiculous predicament is simply and most complicatedly explained with one word-MACHISMO

b.Try to raise the boys on her own. Which for a young, uneducated woman living in an uber-machismo society meant constant struggle, which would most likely result in the kids not going to school and having to work once they got old enough and strong enough to be of value
Cesar was educated, and had all his boys in private school. They were going places, they would be future leaders, and part of a new movement of educated indigenous people that I secretly hoped would someday be a part of an inevitable movement of indigenous people taking control of their country and making it really work for the true majority of this beautiful, but very troubled country.

As I pondered my sadness, I looked for answers…..and the best one I found, the thing I could do that would both help my own healing, honor life, make things a little easier for Rebeca, and remember Cesar, was to start a scholarship fund for the boys.

Before I could think it all through, I found myself holding counsel with the parents of Cesar in their house, holding their hands, hugging them, sharing tears, and committing to making sure that all three boys received a decent education(including uniforms, shoes, tuition, and supplies) until they were 18. I gave my word that I would make sure(whether it was with my personal funds or my friends and family) that the boys education would be covered. It was the biggest commitment I had ever made, but as I walked away, and reflect even in this moment, I don’t have the slightest flinch of regret or fear in making such a long lasting commitment. To Life!

**Since then, two very generous people have stepped forward and committed to helping out with funds for the scholarship (Thanks Nancy and David)**

LIFE

From the edge of the room, from the corner of my eye, from the outskirts of the intimate universe I sometimes visit, I watch her for just a fading moment.

She is sparkling, shimmering, glowing and glittering. As ancient as the sea, as dry and crumbly as the floor her house rests on- She is pure beauty to me and I love her so.

A shiver runs up my spine, gets spun about in my guts, bumps and gurgles its way up to my throat and slides out of the corners of my eyes before I can put my macho clench on the emotions that sometimes sneak out of me from the bowels of my soul.

She is my abuelita, my grandma- the only one I have ever really known. No blood or DNA ties us together, but there is something magical and deep that sometimes goes further and beyond blood.

She´s 88 years old on this earth, doesn’t read or write, signs documents with her thumb print, has 108 grand and great grandchildren, and speaks mostly Kíche-one of 21 different Mayan languages spoken in Guatemala.

I´ve known her for eight years, but it was only recently that I realized who she was to me. She is LIFE! She is my ABUELA! She is the FORCE and a FOUNTAIN for so many. Quick with a joke, always with a smile, more witty then most Americans I know, and not unknown to sip a whisky and coke on special occasions.

I sit with her and four generations of her and her offspring sometimes and get this creeping, soul jumping, heart tugging, happy to be alive feeling. The room is full of love and respect that flows all about like a thousand tributaries of some great watershed of humanity. 108 Grandchildren and Great Grandchildren!

109 counting me. She´s taken me in as one of her own. If she knows I´m coming to visit, she whips up a batch of the most delicious salsa these buds of mine have ever known. She forces me to sit down, pours me a cup of ´hot-whatever she has to offer’ and insists that I eat, and eat more , and then eat just a little more. She blesses me with her god, and always sends me off with a smile and a hug. This year I finally figured it out….she is my abuela…I finally found my grandma.

QUESTIONS

Where does our water come from? How is it cleaned? How do you start a fire? Build a stove? Grow food? Make shoes? Clean dirty water? Build a house? Care for animals? Kill and eat animals?
I wonder about these questions so much these days, and am full of a curiousity that runs deep, always keeping me young and always giving space and breath for that wandering, wondering child in me.

I am such a thinker in my life, but not much of a tinkerer. I take so much for granted. Ive spent a lot of time teaching and directing projects, which I think is my truest nature. However, I have reached a place and time where the time and quest for deep learning has tricked into so many cracks and crevices of my insides that I had to start answering some of these questions.

So I packed my bags up and headed for Nicaragua. I have come to offer my hands, head, and heart to an organization in order to learn and answer some of these questions. Starting April 1, I will be living in San Juan del Sur, on the southern beaches of Nicaragua – a few stone throws a way from the Costa Rican border. I will be learning how to make water filters, stoves, and composting toilets with a local NGO down here.

Coincidentally, the project is located near some of the most beautiful beaches Ive ever seen-with incredible surfing. I am looking forward to being a worker and a student- a tinkerer with my hands….and hopefully to sorting out some of the above mentioned questions.

IF anyone is looking for an excuse to leave the states, mi casa will be your casa. Nicaragua is amazing, full of culture, with super cool people….its also dirt cheap. Paid 10 cents the other day for a pineapple and 5 cents for a mango!!

I have a handful of other recent stories that include beach mansions, old warriors with arms that were blown off, and a dicey border crossing. Stay Tuned for Dispatch 7.